


Location

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Hikaru no Go
Genre: Inline with canon, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Past Relationship(s), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reunion Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-29
Updated: 2014-10-29
Packaged: 2018-02-20 15:44:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2434226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This outcome was inevitable from the moment Isumi picked up the phone to call Waya from China." Isumi comes back home, and Waya is glad to see him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Location

This outcome was inevitable from the moment Isumi picked up the phone to call Waya from China.

He knew it, knew it at the time even if he didn’t know exactly how the details would transpire. It’s why he spent almost an hour staring at the phone, considering his decision before he finally picked up the receiver to dial Waya’s number. From there it was all an easy downhill slide, starting with the awkward pretended ease of the phone call and the pleasure audible in Waya’s voice even over a span of months of silence and the staticky crackle of distance between them. There was no question they would get something to eat when Isumi returned, no hesitation in how close they walked the whole way to the restaurant so by the time they arrived Isumi’s fingertips were prickling with heat from a dozen almost-accidental brushes with Waya’s wrist. Isumi made conversation, collected information for consideration later because across the table from Waya there’s nowhere he can look but at the sweeping curl of the other’s hair and the sparkle in his eyes, and when Waya mentioned his own place with the ill-fitting pride of the newly independent there was no polite lie under Isumi asking to see.

It really is a tiny space, more a box than anything else and entirely empty but for the bed and the Go board on the floor. There’s a few shirts hanging on the wall, an unopened can of soda by the board itself, and a floor clean more by emptiness than effort. But Waya is glowing, alight with pride and unvoiced desire for recognition, and when Isumi says, “It’s great,” he’s looking at Waya’s eyes, and the words fall warm and sincere from his lips.

There’s nothing to do other than play a game of Go. It’s nearly assumed in any case, even with the months apart, and given the setting they can either sit on the floor and play or sit on the bed, and Isumi has a very clear idea of where the latter will end up going. It’s safer, if only barely, to sit across the span of a Go board from Waya, to distract himself with the weight of the stones in his fingers and the pattern of light and dark across the board from the way the sunlight through the window lights up Waya’s hair and the way the other boy’s fingers look as he unconsciously traces the pattern of wood on the edge of the board.

Isumi thinks he might have been able to finish out the game, at least. He’s become better at separating his playing from the rushing thud of anticipation in his pulse, and there is an old familiarity to playing against Waya even if the nostalgia serves to highlight the changes since, the smoothed-off edges in the other boy’s actions and the better-calibrated aggression in Isumi’s. But he’s focused, deliberately keeping his mind on what he’s doing, and he thinks he might succeed in playing a full game before they do anything else.

Then he sets a stone down, and Waya says, “Isumi-san,” and he knows he’s lost even before he glances up.

Waya’s staring at him, all the light of his full attention turned on the other boy so Isumi’s throat goes tight even before Waya’s tongue skims over his bottom lip like an offer. Isumi can’t help the way his gaze drops, doesn’t have a chance to control the whining edge to the inhale he takes; Waya’s lips are chapped and pink, flushed into color that’s only heightened by the slick of damp left in the wake of his tongue. Isumi’s forehead pulls tight into an almost-flinch of reaction, his hands on his knees curl into fists on the fabric, and his gaze stays where it is while Waya’s voice curls around the syllables of his name again.

“Isumi-san.” It’s warm, his name sounds so  _warm_  in Waya’s throat, even as it pulls a little high and strained before Waya hesitates, pauses to swallow. “I’m glad you’re back.”

“I missed you,” Isumi says. He glances up from the other’s mouth, catches Waya staring at him, and then they’re both frozen, as still as if the world is stalling around them. The game is still laid out in front of them, the nearly-even play forming itself into a pattern in Isumi’s peripheral vision, but his mouth is going dry and his heart is pounding so hard he is sure Waya will hear it.

“I did too,” Waya says, his voice uncharacteristically soft on the sounds. “I missed you a lot, Isumi-san.”

“Well.” Isumi is leaning in without thinking about the motion; it’s as if the distance between them is evaporating on its own, both of them drawing closer to the center of the board as his breathing drags audible in his throat. “As long as it was a lot.” His eyes are flickering down again, he can’t stop the reflex, but when he forces his gaze back up Waya’s not looking at his eyes anymore either. The other boy’s gaze is going soft and out-of-focus, his lips falling open in expectation, and Isumi has to swallow hard to collect the request on his tongue.

“Waya.”

Waya hums in acknowledgment, but he’s leaning in farther, so far now he has to reach out to catch his balance at the edge of the board. Isumi hesitates to match him, leaves the inch between them thrumming with anticipation for a moment before he takes a half-breath and says, “Can I?”

He doesn’t specify. He’s not entirely sure what he’d ask for, if he had to clarify the request; all he has is  _want_  in him, too-old memories and aching loneliness trembling under his skin until he’s hurting with the pain of a bruise, until he can’t quite breathe for the shake of the tension in his chest. But he doesn’t think he  _has_  to, is almost-confident in what Waya’s response will be.

Waya’s laugh is short, chopped-off by tension of his own, but the heat of his exhale brushes over Isumi’s mouth like tangible anticipation.

“Of course you can,” he says, the words shaped like laughter at the question itself, and Isumi closes the distance before he finds out if his name is appended to the end of the statement.

Waya’s mouth is just as warm as Isumi remembers. He half-expected some loss in his memories, the gap of nearly-a-year more than enough to account for discrepancies, but Waya’s lips are soft and he’s opening his mouth instantly as if there’s been no time between before and now, as if his highest priority is sliding his tongue past Isumi’s lips. There’s a rattle, the telltale sound of Go stones hitting each other, and Waya’s hand is closing on the back of Isumi’s neck, his other palm is sliding to lie flat on the top of the board he’s leaning over. Isumi is falling, toppling forward under the pull of Waya’s hand, but when he reaches out to catch himself his fingers close on the other boy’s shirt, his hand finds the shape of Waya’s shoulder through his clothes, and the force of gravity slides sideways, drags him in farther over the obstacle between them until it’s only their hold on each other keeping them upright.

It’s Waya who tips first, leans to the side until Isumi has to let one of his hands drop desperately to the board, scattering pieces as he catches his weight. But his other stays fisted in Waya’s shirt, dragging the fabric out-of-shape from the force, and when he opens his mouth “Come  _here_ ,” is what comes out, pulled warm and purring in the back of his throat. Waya laughs, the rippling delight Isumi has had to pull from memory for the last months, and obeys, lurching awkwardly up over a knee so he can half-step, half-crawl over the Go board to deposit himself in Isumi’s lap. He’s a little heavier than he was, his shoulders a little broader, but his legs fit around Isumi’s hips as he straddles the other boy, and his arms settle into place around Isumi’s shoulders, and when Isumi shuts his eyes nothing really important has changed at all. Even the shirt is the same, the loose fabric crumpling into familiarity under Isumi’s fingers so he can slide his fingers up against Waya’s shoulders, trace out the tension of shifting muscle while Waya tips his chin down to kiss him again.

“Don’t leave again.” Waya’s talking between movements, punctuating sentences with the slide of his open mouth against Isumi’s; Isumi doesn’t resist, doesn’t so much as try to speak, just shuts his eyes and lets the heat of Waya’s skin and the damp of his mouth blend into a single unity of pleasure. “Don’t go.”

“I won’t.” Isumi drags one hand sideways, trailing his fingers across Waya’s ribcage so the other jerks at the ticklish sensation. When he brushes his fingertips over the other’s nipple Waya hisses sharp, arches against his hand so sharply his hips rock forward to dig against Isumi’s. “I promise.”

“And pass the pro exam.” Waya is breathing hard, in time with the careful drag of Isumi’s fingers over his chest. Fingers curl in against the top of the other boy’s jeans, tug at the button holding the tight-stretched fabric closed. “You’ll have a hard time catching up otherwise.”

Isumi huffs a laugh, leans in to kiss the teasing smile off Waya’s lips. “I’m just giving you a head start. You’ll need it.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” Waya gets the button free, catches at the zipper to work it open as well. “Is this okay?” he asks, somewhat belatedly, but Isumi isn’t complaining; he’s pushing Waya’s shirt up over his chest, ducking his head so he can replace his fingers with his mouth and slide his tongue over the hard point of Waya’s nipple.

“Of course it is,” he would say, but it comes out as a hum instead. The point is made, in any case, either by his tone or by the friction of his mouth. Waya hisses, shoves his fingers in past the open edge of Isumi’s jeans, and even the inexpert pressure from his palm is enough to pull another whine up Isumi’s throat. One hand is still occupied keeping Waya’s shirt hiked up high over his chest, but after a moment Isumi can work the other free, divert some of his attention from licking across Waya’s skin so he can fit his hand in against the waistband of the other’s pants, slide down until he can brush the very tips of his fingers against hot skin.

Waya exhales hard, grinds down so hard with his palm that all the breath leaves Isumi’s lungs in a groan. Waya arches in closer, rocking his hips up for more until there’s not enough space for both their hands and his wrist is bumping hard against Isumi’s.

“Isumi-san.” Waya’s breathing hard against Isumi’s hair, his words are ruffling warm against the other’s skin. He’s still shifting his palm, reaching for traction he can’t quite get at this angle and at this stage of undress. “I  _want_  you.” There’s a whole world of meaning in that one word, all the months of waiting and the constant frustration of interruptions from before. Isumi lifts his head, looks up so he can see the way Waya is watching him, can see the unfocused heat in the other boy’s eyes when he stretches his fingers for another glancing brush of contact.

“Me too.” It’s not like Isumi really needs to clarify -- Waya can  _feel_  how hard he is against the other boy’s palm -- but it’s worth saying aloud just for the way Waya’s eyes flutter, like he can’t stand to keep them open for a brief moment. “Do you have--”

“Yeah.” Waya’s flushing, self-conscious and pink, but he’s grinning at himself, delight winning out over the embarrassment Isumi can see coloring his cheeks. “Gimme a sec.”

His words notwithstanding, it takes a moment for him to move. Isumi is willing to let him go, loosens his hold on the other’s shirt and slides his fingers up and free of his jeans, but Waya leans back in like he’s looking for a kiss, keeps his fingers wrapped around the back of Isumi’s neck and his thumb pressed up under the other boy’s ear, and for a minute they are both caught in the damp heat of the other’s mouth. Then Waya leans back, Isumi loses the comfort of the other’s fingers against him, and they manage to break apart so Waya can half-topple backwards and reach a hand under the edge of his bed. He’s just out of reach, and really Isumi doesn’t want to distract him anyway, so he keeps his hands to himself, catches a breath and lets his heartrate even itself out into expectant adrenaline instead of panicked desperation. It’s only for a moment, anyway; then Waya is back, flushed and breathless and leaning back in for another kiss before he even speaks or sets down the bottle clutched in one hand.

“Okay,” he manages after the first quick press of lips; Isumi can feel the tension of Waya’s smile against his mouth, the delight audible in his voice. “Here, let me --” He trails off, reaching to loop his fingers through Isumi’s belt loop and tugging to get the other boy up on his knees. Isumi capitulates to the urging, reaches out to brace himself with one hand on the remains of their half-done game and one against Waya’s shoulder while the fingers slide up, curl over the top edge of jeans and boxers alike to push them down off his hips.

“At least we won’t get interrupted,” Isumi observes, anticipation making his words ring high in his throat. Waya’s thumb skims over his hip, pushes his clothes half-off, and Isumi doesn’t have time to even consider being self-conscious before Waya’s fingers are dragging heat across his thighs, pressing hard like he’s trying to memorize the feel of the other’s skin through touch alone.

Waya laughs, ducks his head in against Isumi’s collarbone so his breath blows warm through the fabric of the other’s shirt. “I thought about that,” and then, before Isumi has a chance to even feel a pang of curious jealousy, “It’ll be a lot more fun to have my own place, now you’re back.” He moves sideways around Isumi, trailing his fingers as he goes to trace a path of warmth around Isumi’s hip and down the line of his spine.

“You waited for me,” Isumi says. It’s not a question as much as a statement, half-startled and all pleased in his throat.

Waya’s laugh is as warm as his touch. “Of course I waited.” His hand comes up, fingers spread wide against Isumi’s back to urge him forward. Isumi folds as directed, hesitates for only a moment before pushing the remaining Go stones aside so he can rest his forearms over the board. “You weren’t gone  _that_  long.” Waya’s touch vanishes for a moment, and Isumi knows he’ll be back but he still twists to look, to watch the heated focus in the other’s face as he gets the bottle of lube open and slicks liquid over his fingers. Isumi’s skin flushes hot, electricity rippling all through his body; he’s still shuddering when Waya looks up to catch his eye, flashes an unthought grin as he sets the bottle aside.

“I did miss you,” he reiterates, like Isumi needs the reminding. His hand falls at Isumi’s hip to hold him in place and Isumi is the one who looks away, tips his head so his hair falls in front of his face and he can take a deep breath of anticipation. Waya’s fingers are liquid-cool when they touch his skin, the temperature lingering for a moment before it fades into the rising heat at the point of contact. Isumi’s breathing is coming fast, his hands curling into almost-fists as Waya’s fingers drag over him; he closes his eyes as Waya takes a breath, lets all his attention draw into focus on the other’s touch.

“I’m so glad you’re back,” Waya says. He pushes against Isumi, the slick of his fingers easing the pressure as he slides inside, and Isumi’s throat draws tight so his exhale comes out like a moan. Waya’s still pushing, thrusting his fingers in as far as they will go, and Isumi’s hands are falling open now, his palms twisting down to brace against the pattern of the board under him. Waya doesn’t set much of a rhythm -- his motions are too fast for that, jerky with the anxiety of want -- but Isumi doesn’t complain. His vision is sparking white behind the darkness of his eyelids with every motion of the other’s hand, all his existence is narrowing down to the pressure of Waya’s fingers inside him, and when Waya speaks, asks, “Are you okay?” it takes him a long moment to find the words to respond.

“Waya.” That’s not an answer, not in itself, but the name pulls so low and hot in his throat that Waya whimpers in response even before Isumi has taken another breath, formed his thought around the words, “Yes, yes, I’m okay.”

“I really don’t want to wait,” Waya says, framing the words like an apology and a plea at once as his motion stalls into hesitant hope.

“I don’t want you to wait either.” Isumi opens his eyes, stares unseeing at the board under him. “Please.”

That doesn’t need clarification either. Waya is sliding his hand free, leaving Isumi shivering and aching. It’s hard to resist the urge to reach down and close his fingers around himself, to give himself the satisfaction of contact while listening to the rustle of fabric and the clink of zipper from behind him, but he wants to  _wait_ , wants it to be Waya’s fingers and not his, so Isumi stays where he is, and tries to breathe, and then Waya’s touch is back, both hands at his hips now whispering intention even before he leans too far forward and bumps against the back of Isumi’s leg. He’s burning hot, heat given form and substance, and Isumi sucks in air, rocks himself back involuntarily against the resistance so Waya chokes and pushes against him for a moment.

“Fuck.” Waya pulls back, takes a gulp of air so loudly Isumi can hear it without trying. “Okay.” It has all the aura of determination, that one word, and Waya’s hands are trembling faintly against Isumi’s hips but his hold is still steady. When he tugs back Isumi lets himself be pulled into position, holds himself in place while Waya shifts behind him; there’s a pause, heat and pressure as Waya lines himself up, and then he’s pulling Isumi back and thrusting forward himself, and all the heat is rolling out into Isumi’s blood as Waya starts to slide into him.

“ _God_ ,” Isumi blurts. He meant to hold still but he’s rocking backwards, trying to meet Waya as fast as the other boy comes forward, and between the two of them they slide together too-quick, too much and too fast so for a breath all Isumi can see is white. Waya’s groaning behind him, his fingers are clenching tight at Isumi’s hips, and they both go still, breathless in the first wave of heat.

“Waya,” Isumi manages, and Waya says “Yeah” instantly, lets his hand go and leans in closer so he can reach to wrap his fingers around Isumi’s length. His grip is satisfaction enough in the first wave of pressure, the tension in his fingers granting the sensation Isumi is aching for, but then he starts to stroke, his movements easy with practice in this, and Isumi can feel the end coming for him faster than he wants.

“Keep going,” he says, pleads, rocking his weight back to push against Waya’s still hips. “I won’t --” Waya’s fingers slide up higher, his thumb slides across the head of Isumi’s cock, and Isumi’s words cut off into a groan for a moment. “ _Ah_. I -- I won’t last otherwise.”

“You and me both,” Waya says, but he slides his hand back down, pauses for a moment so he can shift his weight and draw back. “You’re really --” He hesitates, laughs bright and quick. “You’re really  _hot_ , Isumi-san.”

The amusement shudders up Isumi’s spine, spills out over his tongue even as Waya starts to rock forward, a little more slowly this time. “You know.” He takes a breath, slides one arm forward to brace his fingers around the edge of the board. “You could call me by my first name.” He takes a breath, shuts his eyes to focus. “If you wanted.”

There’s a pause, Waya’s motions stalling for a moment while Isumi catches his breath around the race of his pulse. He can hear the inhale Waya takes, the strain like he’s bracing himself a moment.

“Shinichirou.” It’s almost a whisper, soft and careful like Waya’s never said it before. Isumi would laugh at the reverent tone except that the syllables slide into his skin as raw heat, shudder into his breathing and turn his laughter into a fluttering moan instead before he can even compose himself enough to offer “Yoshitaka” in return.

“Fuck,” Waya laughs, his hand dragging up over Isumi’s length as he rocks his hips back, leans in closer over the other’s back. “Say it again.”

“Yoshitaka,” Isumi says instantly, shaping the sounds into the leading edge of familiarity on his tongue. They fit in his throat like they were made to rest there, shiver in his head in resonance with the thrumming heat of sensation in his skin, and Waya is moving faster, picking up speed and losing rhythm but that’s okay, it doesn’t interrupt the flush of heat rising up through Isumi’s body. “Yoshitaka, don’t stop, please.”

“I won’t,” Waya says. He’s leaning in so close Isumi can feel his breathing blowing hot over the back of his neck, can hear the stuttering speed of the other boy’s breathing falling into too-fast rhythm with his. Waya’s fingers are still sliding over him, pulling long smooth strokes that drag the tension in Isumi’s body tighter with every motion, and Isumi would swear he’s coming in deeper with each thrust of his hips, demanding more and more of Isumi’s attention until he’s coming apart into heat and tension together.

“I,” Waya starts, but his sentence shatters apart, Isumi can barely keep track of the sound in his head for the rush of his heartbeat in his ears. “I’m...I can’t last.” The pause is heavy with implication, collecting meaning around Waya’s words and heat in Isumi’s blood, and then he half-whispers “Shinichiro” again and Isumi can feel himself starting to tremble as he slides over the edge. For a breath he’s frozen in perfect stillness, expectant and patient for the inevitable conclusion; then Waya jerks forward, whimpers hot into Isumi’s shoulder as his fingers go convulsive and tight on the other boy’s length, and Isumi shudders and is gone, white heat washing him into incoherency for a moment as he rocks into Waya’s hold and comes over the other boy’s fingers in the first rush of breathless warmth.

Waya’s leaning heavy against him when Isumi pulls together the pieces of his surroundings again, his face buried against the other boy’s back while he quivers through the last shocks of his own orgasm. He’s impossibly hot, pinning Isumi in place at every point of contact, and it’s perfect, it’s everything Isumi has been aching for for all the months apart.

The warmth lingers even after Waya has pulled away, even once they’ve both made a token attempt at cleaning up and have made it to the previously-ignored bed as the most comfortable place to catch their breath. Isumi feels radiant, feels like all his skin is glowing, even before Waya haphazardly drapes himself over the other boy and presses a kiss to the edge of his jaw.

“I like your name,” he says needlessly, as if Isumi couldn’t hear the pleased quiver in his voice every time he says it.

Isumi cuts his eyes sideways at Waya, lets his mouth pull into a lopsided smile. “I like yours.” He turns his head, lets his mouth land against Waya’s cheekbone. When Waya huffs a laugh it blows warm against Isumi’s collar, and when he shifts his weight it settles their legs a little more comfortably together, and Isumi is sure he doesn’t want to ever be anywhere else.


End file.
